The Shotgun Arcana (11 page)

“You lost, miss?” the man’s booming voice said. He had a touch of an Irish accent. She looked up from the chest to the face attached it. A pale man with freckles, a mop of red hair and a small bowler hat on his head. He had piercing blue eyes and a practiced scowl. “Don’t seem like your kind of place.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Bick,” Emily said, trying not to sound nervous. “It’s very urgent.”

The man with the bowler deepened his scowl. His eyes flicked up to an office door on the second floor. Emily could barely make out the milky, frosted glass pane of the door past the man’s bulk. “I’m afraid Mr. Bick is indisposed right now, miss. You care to leave him a message I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I don’t think you understand, this is very important,” Emily said. “He’ll want to see me. I traveled all the way from…”

“Lots of people travel to see Mr. Bick,” the redhead said. “Lots of people think whatever they need to see him about is very important. But you’re just going to have to wait like the rest of them, darlin’.” He placed a large hand on her shoulder, gently, and began to turn her back toward the saloon doors. “Now come along, this is no place for you.”

The upstairs office door opened and Emily heard two men talking as they exited the office. She caught a glimpse of them as they approached the staircase.

“You need to address this now, Harry, before Rony turns it into a campaign issue for you,” one of them said.

One was very handsome and well dressed; a brocade waistcoat of blue and black caught her eye. He was long of limb with a fine mane of rust-colored hair, a handlebar mustache and muttonchops. The other man was also dressed in finery—a dark maroon shirt with a vest and pants of black. His hair fell in curls to his shoulder in a half-shingle. He sported a black mustache and goatee. Emily’s eyes widened as she realized who the man was from Caleb’s many accounts. The bouncer’s insistent hand tightened on her shoulder and he began to wrestle her to the door.

“Mr. Bick!” Emily shouted. “Mr. Bick!”

“All right, lass,” the bouncer said, impatience in his voice. “Enough of that.”

He was forcing her through the saloon doors. Emily grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand off her shoulder effortlessly. The larger man was stunned by how easily the girl broke his grip. Emily shoved him, her palm to his chest, and he flew backward toward the bar, his derby flying off his head. Emily sprinted to the stairs and ran up them to meet the two men descending as the bouncer scrambled to catch her, but she was too fast for him.

“Mr. Bick,” Emily said as the men paused in their descent. “My name is Emily. Emily Rose Bright. My mother was Clance Bright of San Francisco and you, Mr. Bick, you are my father.”

The Emperor

Harry Pratt, mayor of Golgotha, was running in a forest the color of blood. Blood, in fact, dripped from the branches and the wide, thick leaves. It spattered down out of the sky, a thick, hesitant rain. The floor of the forest was slick with it and it splashed his boots as he ran from the thing that pursued him. He could hear its grunting, its panting breath behind him.

He ran past trees where people he knew, people he cared for in the town, were nailed and flayed, still screaming, begging him to save them, to kill them. His wife, Sarah; his friend and mentor, Antrim Slaughter; scores of townsfolk were all looking at him with pleading eyes, accusing eyes. He veered to the right as he ran from the shambling thing. Sheriff Jon Highfather hung suspended from a tree upside down, one leg straight, the other cocked at the knee.

“You can’t outrun it, Harry,” Jon said, blood burbling from his mouth. “Turn and fight.”

Harry couldn’t find his sword, the gold and silver mythical Sword of Laban—the first and greatest blade ever forged, the archetypal blade from which all other swords of legend descended.

“Here it is, Harry, my love,” his dead wife, Holly, said to him. She was standing there in white, smiling, beautiful, alive and looking the way he remembered her, not how she had been at the end—hollow and filled with darkness, when he had been too late to save her. She wore a translucent white veil and held the sword with both hands, arms extended. The blood began to stain and soak into her white gown in slow, fat drops. She still smiled at him through her darkening veil. “Take it, it’s yours.”

He grabbed the weightless, flawless blade by the hilt and turned to face the lumbering, howling thing. The pain was exquisite, fire searing his palm as he dropped the blade into the deep puddle of blood at his feet, his hand smoking.

“Unclean!” dour Rony Bevalier said. The town Mormon elder had taken Holly’s place: a figure in white, but Bevalier was caked in dust and spider webs. Spiders crawled along his cobweb veil. His pale, water blue eyes boiled with hatred. “Sodomite, man-lover, freak, unworthy!”

It was coming, fast closing. It was gigantic, covered from crown to toe in foul, long dirty hair. It bore a man’s face, full of pain and anger, red eyes seeing only murder.

“And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand.”

It was Malachi Bick’s voice. Perched on the branch of a great, hemorrhaging tree, the saloonkeeper had large black wings like a bird’s, extending from his back, and they, too, were slowly being drenched in blood. “When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth and whosoever slayeth you, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.” Bick held a skull in his hands, blood pouring from it, soaking the soil, soaking everything.

“It’s going to be okay, Harry,” James Ringo said, taking Harry’s burned hand in his own. The pain faded. Ringo was so beautiful; his eyes were calm and dark and serene, full of love and confidence. “It’s going to be all right, as long as we are together.…”

There was a roar and Harry spun. The Great Hairy Man was upon him, on top of him. Ringo’s fingers slipped away from his own and he was alone and the entire world was a bellowing face of endless rage, and Harry could do nothing to stop it.

“Mr. Mayor?”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked in sweat. He was on the couch of his office again, panting in fear. His assistant, young Colton Higbee, stood over him looking very concerned. The young man was from a good Mormon family and wanted to be a lawyer. He had served Harry very well over the last few years. “Sir, I’m sorry to wake you.… Actually, I’m not. You appeared to be in a great deal of distress. You have a meeting in less than an hour, sir.”

“I do? What time is it?”

Harry rolled over and sat up on the couch. He slid out his father’s pocket watch and popped the lid open, rubbing his wet, disheveled hair. Inside the watch was a browning, faded photograph of Harry’s late mother.

“Almost eight, sir,” Colton said, pushing his wire spectacles up on his nose and then smoothing his centrally parted hair, which was slicked down tightly with a generous application of macassar oil. He handed Harry a hot cup of Arbuckle coffee with a little bit of cream.

Harry drank deeply and sighed. “Mother’s milk,” he mumbled.

“Another late night, sir?” Colton said. “Sir, if I may, when was the last time you slept more than a few hours, or at home?”

Harry ignored his young aide and took another sip of coffee as he looked for his boots. “What is on the agenda for today, mother?”

“You have a campaign meeting before noon with Mr. Bick at his office,” Colton said. “Sheriff Highfather wanted you to know he’s back from his trip to New Orleans and that the business he had there has been resolved. He also wanted to inform you there was a murder last night at the Dove’s Roost.”

“Client or girl?” Harry asked, yawning.

“Girl, sir,” Colton said. “The sheriff says he is investigating. While there is little chance there will be much public cry over the death of a prostitute, public safety is an issue that we have been hearing a lot about from voters. You may also want to discuss with the sheriff the issue of hiring more deputies.”

Harry nodded. Colton continued. “Sarah has some papers out at the ranch you are supposed to sign in regards to the sale of the twenty acres to Mr. Wickshire and his family. Max Macomber has expressed the opinion to me this fine morning that Deputy Mutt should be relieved of his duty. His words were somewhat less eloquent. I assured him you would give the matter all the attention it deserves and meet up with him at his shop today. Then a meeting tonight at six at the Presbyterian Church with the Ladies Temperance League.”

“God,” Harry said, “I’ll need a drink after that.”

“They tell their husbands who to vote for,” Colton reminded him, pouring some heated water into the tin washbasin stand, near the door. “Also, sir, I wanted to bring to your attention the numerous promissory notes that arrived from San Francisco. They are for several thousands of dollars and were presented by your friend, Mr. Ringo. The parties are requesting payment.”

Harry frowned. James had said nothing to him about borrowing money, or going to his old home in San Francisco; of course it had been a while since they had talked. A pang of loneliness stabbed Harry.

“Pay them,” Harry said. “From my personal accounts, please, Colton.” He drained his coffee mug and sighed. “Who do I have this morning?” Harry asked.

Colton smiled. “Your favorite.…”

*   *   *

Harry hated meeting with Golgotha’s Mormon elders. It reminded him of the most dreary memories of his childhood, when his father, the great, stern Josiah Pratt—Priest of the Second Order, the Patriarchal Authority—twenty feet tall, with lightning coming out of his eyes and a face made of scowling stone, would make him come to these meetings when all he wanted was to be out playing in the sun with Holly and the other children. Now, thirty-four, he felt the same way—he wanted out of here, badly.

“This is a serious position we find ourselves in,” Brodin Chaffin said. “The Argent Mine reopening has reignited the boom we had before everyone thought it had gone bust, but it is also bringing with it problems that our community simply cannot abide.”

Chaffin was a stocky man in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven and well dressed. He looked at the other men around the table in the cool, shadowed meeting hall of the tabernacle off Absalom Road, next to the church and near the temple building.

“Our people, the men of our faith, have held respected and prominent positions in the business community of Golgotha since we founded the town, and now we are in danger of being overcome by outside, foreign business interests; of losing our control.”

“Yes,” Rony Bevalier said, nodding. The elder was as dry and pale as ever, his face a rutted road of wrinkles and furrowed scowl lines. For an instant Harry saw Bevalier wrapped in webs and spiders as in his dreams. He shuddered and shook it off. “Our community was founded on Mormon values, and with Mormon blood and sweat. Unless something is done and done soon, Golgotha will be another cesspool of filth, mongrels and moral turpitude, like what has already befallen Virginia City and Carson City.”

“With all due respect,” Harry said, sitting up in his chair. “The boom is creating some challenges for the town, but in the long run, growth from the Argent and from our proximity to the transcontinental railroad is good for everyone’s business.”

“You need to be concerned about your own people’s businesses, not everyone’s,” Bevalier said. “What are you first, Pratt? A politician or a Mormon?”

“I could ask you the same question, Elder,” Harry said, meeting the old man’s withering gaze. “You seem to be more interested in protecting business than extending welcome to our new neighbors.”

Bevalier reddened and turned to his fellow elder, Antrim Zezrom Slaughter. “Explain to me again why this impudent dandy is here?”

Slaughter, Golgotha’s highest-ranking Mormon, a high priest and the sole reason that Golgotha had a fully recognized temple in the middle of the desolate wasteland, smiled and nodded to Bevalier. Slaughter was dressed in black, as usual; with silver hair, gray eyes and standing six foot two, he was an imposing figure.

“I think both of you need to leave that election at the door,” Slaughter said. “There isn’t enough room in here for it and the church’s business. Rony, Harry’s family was instrumental in creating this town. He is the guardian of the relics of our faith that are located in the caves below his family home, and then there is the matter of his position as a defender of the faith and protector.”

Harry waved Slaughter off. “Sir, I’d prefer not to get into all that.”

“If this limsy is the One Mighty and Strong,” Bevalier said, “then I’m Daniel Boone! This town needs a real leader, not this sorry mop.”

“I never claimed to be that!” Harry said, standing. “I never asked for any of this, and I’m sick and tired of your constant—”

“Enough!” Slaughter said, slapping his palm on the table. “Both of you. Harry has earned a seat on this council, and he has earned all of our respect. And you, Rony, you will keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll have something to say about it.”

All four men at the table were silent. Slaughter finally spoke.

“Well, another productive meeting,” he said. “Our next order of business…”

When the meeting adjourned, Slaughter took Harry aside.

“You need to learn to not let him goad you like that,” Slaughter said. “You have more important things to concern yourself with than playing political slap and tickle with Rony.”

“If I don’t put him and that glad-handing nob of a son of his in their place, I’ll be out of a job. What could be more important than that?”

Slaughter reached under his coat and removed a packet of letters. He handed them to Harry.

“This is,” Slaughter said. “Your commitment to your people and the faith.”

Harry looked at the letters. “What are these?”

“Correspondence,” Slaughter said. “Letters, telegrams, requests for help from the One Mighty and Strong. Word has gotten out about what you did last year, Harry, about how the sacred plates revealed themselves to you. Ours is a new faith, and it is not always welcome in this land. The faithful need heroes, they need you, Harry.”